


Untold Memories

by DiamondBlue4, InhoePublishing



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Post-Star Trek (2009)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24825571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiamondBlue4/pseuds/DiamondBlue4, https://archiveofourown.org/users/InhoePublishing/pseuds/InhoePublishing
Summary: Kirk struggles with the aftermath of Spock Prime's mind-meld on Delta Vega. Now, limping back home after the fall of the Narada, Kirk is plagued with nightmares and headaches.“Go to sleep, Jim,” McCoy urged quietly.He closed his eyes obediently but refused to yield to sleep. He knew what waited in the darkness. He could already feel the grief welling upward and he needed to keep it at bay, keep his mind occupied with something else. But lying next to Bones, he felt himself begin to instinctively relax, muscles releasing their tension. Bones’ clean smell and the solid feel of him was like a soothing drug, lulling him deeper into repose.He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but the exhaustion born of the past few days overpowered him and dragged him down, down, down…
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Leonard "Bones" McCoy
Comments: 23
Kudos: 136





	Untold Memories

# First Night

Jim walked into the Medical Bay on _Enterprise_ feeling the scream of every muscle and nerve in his body. Even his skin hurt. And if he had to admit it, he knew he was barely staying on his feet. He hadn’t sat down in hours, not since he’d taken command of the ship from Spock.

Fuck, just the thought of that shit-show made his head hurt. It hadn’t been his best moment. Still, despite the fact that he wanted to crawl into a soft bed and sleep for a week, it had been worth it. Pike had been rescued, Earth saved from certain destruction, the Narada had been defeated – and exiled – and the ship was limping home. Limping, but safe. The repair crews were working around the clock to keep the hull stable and critical life support functioning until help could arrive. Power consumption was the new problem they were focused on solving, but it would have to wait for now. Jim had a promise to keep.

Sickbay was filled, but the chaos he’d seen earlier had been turned into an organized operation. The central station was buzzing with activities, but everyone moved at a controlled and calm pace. He barely gathered more than a quick glance as he moved among the busy staff, which suited him just fine. Pausing near the station, he perused the injuries of the crew that filled the beds lining the wall. He recognized some of them from the Academy. What a difference a day made. Their eager faces were now worn and pinched with pain, their bodies drained of the seemingly unending enthusiasm and optimism that had filled them when standing on the landing deck awaiting their assignments. He knew a little of how that felt.

“Can I help you, Cadet?”

He turned his head toward the nurse who’d spoken.

“Oh, sorry, Captain.” The title seemed to stick in her throat a bit, like she wasn’t quite sure it applied to him.

How much of the gossip train had gotten to Medical, he wondered? Did she know he’d been suspended, promoted, exiled and assumed command in the course of a few hours? Did she know _how_ he’d assumed command? He swallowed painfully and shook his head. Coming here had been a big mistake. He was about to turn and leave when McCoy’s figure emerged from a narrow hallway in the ancillary sickbay just behind the CMO’s office.

McCoy managed to look both surprised and irritated. “It’s about time you showed up. Thought I was going to have to drag your ass down here.”

“I’ve been a little busy, Bones.” Christ, was that his voice? He sounded like he’d swallowed broken glass.

“Yeah, I heard.”

McCoy scrutinized him from head to toe and Jim hoped that he hadn’t noticed how he was favoring his left side, where he suspected his ribs were broken. But that was probably futile. He knew well enough by now that Bones saw everything. Always did.

“You look like shit, kid.”

And had a pretty crappy bedside manner, to boot. Jim wanted to say something snarky, a classic Jim Kirk response, like “Is that your professional opinion?” or “You should see the other guy.” He had a dozen comebacks resting on his tongue waiting to be voiced, but his throat was so goddamn sore that all he could do was offer Bones a defiant smile. And even that fell short of his intentions, because his head was pounding, his face was stiff and swollen and god only knows how he really looked. Sure felt like shit.

McCoy stared at him for a moment longer, scowling, then pointed toward the ancillary sickbay. “I saved a bed for you.”

Just the few minutes of standing still had stiffened his muscles, made each ache more pronounced. The thought of moving made him cringe. McCoy tilted his head, inspecting him. After a few breaths, he forced his body into motion, taking one staggered step after another until he’d passed McCoy, who had remained in place like the stubborn bastard he was. By the time he made it to the one empty bed at the end, his headache had intensified, and his side felt like someone had put him in a vise. It took more than a little effort to hoist himself up, hampered by the effort of keeping his arm pressed firmly against his damaged ribs, while at the same time, trying to keep pressure off his right hand, which was swollen and throbbing. He managed to get half-way onto the biobed before McCoy swore.

“For Christ’s sake,” the doctor said, hoisting him upwards.

“Fuck, Bones. Watch it,” he hissed. Sharp ribbons of pain ran up and down his side, penetrating deep into his chest and stealing his breath.

“Quit whining.” Despite his harsh words, McCoy’s touch was gentle as he carefully guided Jim to lie back. “If you’d come down here earlier, you wouldn’t be in this state.”

Which was just classic Bones. The man thought doctoring was the answer to all their problems, as if the ship hadn’t lost the warp core and getting home was a sure thing.

The monitor above the bed came alive with soft chimes and pings. As McCoy studied it, his mouth tightened. A nurse appeared out of nowhere to stand next to him.

McCoy turned toward her. “Christine, get this idiot’s clothes off and start an IV of Ringer’s. See if you can’t find an osteoregenerator somewhere. And get a blood workup – CBC, CMP, the works, and a suture kit.” He stepped toward the head of the bed as the nurse moved to comply with his orders. “Decided to go in guns blazing, huh?”

“Romulans don’t get subtlety, Bones,” Jim said in a flat, rough tone.

“Neither do Vulcans, apparently,” McCoy retorted, pressing his fingers to Jim’s throat and gently palpitating the bruised larynx.

Jim tensed and cringed as the pain in his throat ignited, but he tried to keep himself still under Bones’ touch.

“Relax,” McCoy said quietly, moving his fingers along Jim’s throat and shifting the bruised cartridge. “Any trouble breathing?”

“Yeah, with your hands pressing on my throat,” he bit out, clenching his jaw. Even though Bones’ touch was gentle and purely medical, he couldn’t help but get a flash image of Nero’s hands around his throat. He pushed the image away and focused on Bones, but the palpation had racketed up the pain in his neck, as if McCoy were stabbing him with tiny knives.

McCoy gave him an annoyed look. “Any dizziness? And don’t lie to me.”

He glared at the doctor. “No.”

When McCoy finally finished his exam, Jim released a shaky breath. His throat felt crushed and swollen, making swallowing nearly impossible. Fuck, Bones had made it worse. He put a hand to his throat as if the contact with his bruised skin would ease his misery.

“Congratulations, you’ve got a fractured hyoid. You’re damn lucky you can still breathe.”

He didn’t feel lucky. It felt as if every damn Romulan on the _Narada_ had tried to strangle him.

Chapel returned carrying a filled tray, with another red-headed nurse following close behind. “Osteo will be another half an hour, Doctor.”

“Perfect. What else are we running out of?”

“Just about everything.”

Within seconds they had converged on Jim. McCoy stepped to the side as the red-headed nurse began to cut off his clothes.

“Wai-” His throat seized up as he jerked away to prevent the nurse from slicing through his pant leg, the defensive movement followed by a sharp stab of pain in his side, as his ribs protested the hasty decision. He froze in place and bit back a groan.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” McCoy said. “Lie still and let the nurses do their job.”

His pants were quickly removed, and they began slicing through his black shirt, ignoring his protests. “Pull a curtain or something,” he rasped.

McCoy raised an amused eyebrow, standing with both arms crossed over his chest. “Sorry, kid, this is Ancillary Sickbay, not a private room at SF General. No curtains.”

Fuck. They were too quick and well-practiced for him, easily maneuvering around his aborted attempts to resist, so he gave it up as a lost cause and stared at the ceiling, waiting for it to be over. He was soon divested of his clothing, and before he could even fully register it, he was naked, a white sheet floated over him. Shivering, he resisted the urge to pull up the sheet to his chin. He’d never been shy about his body or the attention it received, but this was different. He’d gotten a good look before the sheet settled, and the sight of his pale skin, mottled with bruises and cuts, made him cringe. Glancing quickly at McCoy, he could see the doctor had seen it all, too.

McCoy’s scowl deepened as he moved to the head of the bed and began punching codes into the overhead panel. “You’ll warm up in a second.”

“I’m going to start an IV,” Chapel said as she took his left arm. “You’ll feel a small pinch.”

It was slowly registering that this was a more serious intervention than he’d wanted or planned on. IV, blood draw, full monitoring on the biobed… and had Bones said something about sutures? He raised up on an elbow, grimacing as the pain flared. “You said you only needed to do a quick checkup, Bones.”

“I never said quick.” McCoy put a hand on his shoulder and pressed forcing him back down. “Lie still. I’m going to take a scan.”

The IV was in before he had a chance to protest further. Chapel connected the long tubing to the port, taping it in place along his wrist. She stepped back as a blue light swept from above the bed. The shivering was exacerbating his pain and he was finding it increasingly difficult to remain still. Suddenly, even the small aches were now impossible to ignore. As they announced themselves, his memory ignited, replaying each moment they were created in vivid detail, because that’s how his genius brain worked. The memories made his head hurt even more, so he focused on McCoy instead, wondering how the hell he was going to get out of this, when Chapel took hold of his arm again.

“I’m going to draw some blood. One more pinch. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Bones—” He pulled at his arm, trying to free it from her grip.

“Relax your arm, please,” Chapel said firmly, trying to extend his arm.

McCoy scowled and glanced down at him, the greater part of his attention clearly on the monitor. “Don’t be such an infant, Jim.”

“I wouldn’t be complaining if you’d just stop jabbing me with things.” His response was barely audible, more a thin, hoarse croak than a normal voice. His throat felt raw and swollen. He’d unconsciously relaxed his arm while talking, and Chapel took advantage of his lapse, pressing the auto-vacutainer to the inside of his arm.

“Hold still,” she requested.

As if he had a choice. He turned away from the sight of his blood filling the tube to glare at McCoy. “I’ve lost enough blood, thank you so much. And you’ve ruined the only clothes I have.”

“Stop talking. You’re making your throat worse.”

He didn’t think that was possible and was about to say as much when Chapel finished and released her hold.

“All done,” she said with a smile and handed the vial filled with his blood to the red-headed nurse, who took it and left.

“I don’t need all of this medical stuff,” Jim croaked. Bones, as usual, was going overboard.

“When you get a medical degree, you get an opinion.” He turned to Chapel. “Do we have a Class 3 regenerator available?”

“The only one currently functioning is being used on Captain Pike. He won’t be finished with it for hours.”

McCoy’s mouth tightened. “What’s next on this tin can? No power to the biobeds? Cat gut for sutures?” He expelled a heavy breath. “We’ll try medication for the swelling. Not as effective, but at least it will improve his airway.”

“You sound busy, Bones. Maybe I should come back later,” Jim husked.

“Nice try. You’re not going anywhere with these open wounds.” McCoy drew the sheet down to Jim’s waist and began to probe at his right side. “We’ll disinfect and suture these cuts next,” he said to Chapel. “This idiot’s probably already got an infection brewing.”

Jim knew there was no way McCoy was going to let him leave now, not once he’d gotten a good look at the extent of his injuries. He’d planned on a cursory exam, fully clothed, a hypo for the pain and off to grab a few hours of sleep on whatever secluded horizontal surface he could find. Now, lying on the biobed, shivering, and in pain, everything that had happened seemed to magnify. The full extent of the day began to sink in and he desperately wanted to find a dark, quiet place to retreat to, and find some respite from reality.

“You’re short on supplies, Bones. I’m not so bad. Been hurt worse. I can wait,” he said in a thin voice.

“For what? Sepsis? Hypoxia? Forget it; you’re not going anywhere.” Bones’ tone what sharp and unassailable, but his hands on Jim’s abdomen were gentle and steady. Warm.

“I have a ship to run.” His head pounded, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into a warm bed somewhere far away from Sickbay.

“And hundreds of people to help you do it.” McCoy scrutinized him. “Being captain doesn’t make you superhuman. No one’s going to begrudge you medical attention after the day you’ve had.” He paused and softened a bit. “I’ve got a job to do too, Jim. I can’t get my own rest until I’ve finished treating you.”

That shut Jim up. McCoy looked as tired as he felt, and the last thing he wanted to do was cause his friend more grief. Bones was probably already in serious trouble. Pike wasn’t going to be so forgiving about him sneaking Jim onboard. He hadn’t really thought about Bones’ responsibility in all of this, but McCoy was acting CMO, and that put the entire medical department and health of the crew in his lap. Including the captain. Correction, Captains. In all of this he’d forgotten about Pike.

“Bones,” Jim said faintly. “How’s Pike?”

Chapel retrieved a small kit from the tray and, opening it, held it out to McCoy. Selecting an instrument, McCoy sat on a rolling stool and glided to Jim’s right side. “Holding his own.”

“That good?”

“Considering the circumstances, it’s not bad.” McCoy’s fingers were warm and sure as they probed Jim’s side. “How’d you get this?”

Jim looked down and saw a jagged laceration crossing his side, just under his ribs. Initially, it had bled copiously, and the skin around it was now coated with patches of thickly dried blood. A black, crooked seam ran through the center of it. He hadn’t even felt it among the other aches and pains. At least, not much. “I have no idea.”

McCoy grunted. “Looks like a blunt trauma laceration. Pretty forceful blow, too. Lucky it wasn’t any deeper,” he said, exchanging instruments with Chapel.

“Stop saying I’m lu—”

An icy blast hit the wound, leaving a trail of fire in its path, and Jim sucked in a breath with a sharp hiss.

“Sorry,” McCoy said, moving the instrument over the wound for a second pass before handing it back. His fingers probed the now open wound. “I want to let it flow a bit, then you can irrigate it, Christine, before I suture.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“And give him 25mg of Profolzine for the pain.”

Chapel deftly tucked a thick pad of dressing beneath the wound while McCoy scooted down to Jim’s legs.

“Is there any place on you that isn’t bruised?” McCoy asked.

He doubted it.

Chapel injected a hypo into the IV port and Jim felt a warm wave advance up his arm as the drug entered his system. Within moments, the pain lessened, and a pleasant lethargy washed over him. By the time the osteoregenerator arrived, his body felt heavy and sluggish, and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. All he wanted to do was find a bed and sleep. He was just beginning to think that he was finally getting one foot closer to the door, when Chapel hung another small bag of solution and connected it to his IV.

“What’s that?” Jim asked suspiciously.

“The antibiotics Dr. McCoy ordered,” Chapel said matter-of-factly.

When she finished fussing with the IV line, she placed the osteoregenerator above his broken ribs.

“How long’s this going to take?”

“About two hours. We need to treat both your ribs and your hand. You have to stay still during the treatments, Captain,” she warned, “especially the one on your ribs.”

McCoy had finished with his examination and stood at the foot of the bed. “You look beat. Try to get some sleep, Jim. I’ll be back when the cycles are complete.”

Sickbay was too busy and bright for him to really sleep, but he closed his eyes and listened to the lulling hum as the machine began passing over his ribs. He was well-acquainted with this particular treatment, and normally it didn’t bother him, but lying still allowed the thoughts he’d been trying to avoid all day to surface.

Despite having been given something for the pain, his head still throbbed, as it has been doing ever since experiencing Old Spock’s mind meld on Delta Vega. He tried to keep his thoughts focused on ship’s business and not the images the other Spock had shared. He hadn’t had time to fully digest the information the other Spock had imparted to him, and he didn’t want to think about it now, either. It was like seeing visions of things he could have been and now couldn’t have.

He’d had enough of that in his life.

After two interminable hours the machine stopped. McCoy carefully examined his ribs.

“There’s more edema here than I’d like,” he said pressing gently on the ribs. “Does that hurt?”

He shook his head. “Not much. Nothing that will be a problem. Am I done?”

“Not yet.”

He exhaled loudly. “Bones, you’ve poked every part of my body. I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

McCoy scowled as he re-examined Jim’s throat. “The medication has relieved some of the swelling, but it’s going to be as sore as hell for a few days.”

“Great. Can I go now?”

“You need to eat,” McCoy said, raising the bed to a comfortable incline. “Your blood sugar is in the tank. Your metabolism has burned through your reserves, Jim, and the regenerators took everything else.”

“I’m fine. I’m just tired. I’ll eat after I sleep.”

“You’ll eat now. A heart arrythmia is the last thing you need.”

The red-headed nurse approached the bed carrying a tray. She set it down on a lap table and rolled it to rest in front of him, taking off a protective cover to reveal a small bowl of thick looking gravy.

“What’s this supposed to be?” His stomach turned at the mere sight of it.

“Chicken soup,” she said. “The replicators are having issues. Best I could do.”

“I’ll pass.”

“No, you won’t,” McCoy said sharply. “That headache and shaking you’re having is because you’re hypoglycemic, genius. You’re not going anywhere until you eat.”

Shit. He wrinkled his nose and picked up the spoon. It looked god-awful. He managed to finish half the bowl before his stomach threatened to revolt, and he put down the spoon. McCoy eyed the remaining contents with displeasure, but said nothing, turning instead to a near-by medic.

“Find him something to wear….”

“Wilson, sir.”

McCoy nodded. “Wilson. Something warm.” Making notes on Jim’s chart, he said in a tone that brooked no argument, “You’re off duty for the next twelve hours.”

“Bones—”

“Care to make it twenty-four?”

He did not.

Wilson returned with a set of patient wear – long trousers and a short-sleeved shirt.

“Get into these and we’ll get you out of here,” McCoy said. “You need to sleep.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Jim slipped off the biobed, and once vertical, was immediately hit by a wave of dizziness. He waited for it to pass, then eagerly climbed into the clean clothes, encumbered by the soft dressing on his right hand.

McCoy handed the chart to Chapel with a nod and gripped Jim’s bicep, steering him from the bed. “Come on. It’s time you got some rest.”

Jim didn’t know where they were going until they stopped in front of McCoy’s quarters. McCoy released the lock, and Jim allowed the doctor to usher him inside without protest.

“Nice,” he said, sleepily, looking around. The drugs were making it hard to think clearly. Still, he could see the room was large by comparison to non-com quarters. Private bathroom and a small office. Nothing fancy, but a damn sight better than his dorm room. Not, he noticed, a double-bed which meant Bones had registered as a single officer, even though they’d been sleeping together for over a year.

“It’ll do,” McCoy said. “Bed’s small, but you cuddle anyway.”

Jim cringed. “I don’t cuddle.”

“You’re all over me like a Denebian bat.” McCoy kept a firm grip on his arm and steered him toward the bathroom. “Come on, you need a shower before you sleep.”

There sonic shower was soothing on his overly sensitive skin. The sonic waves pulsed over his naked body in waves, lulling him nearly to sleep standing up. Within minutes, the sonic chimed and shut off, leaving him clean and refreshed. Yawning, he stepped out of the shower, and McCoy handed him a pair of sleeping bottoms and a tee shirt.

“Didn’t think you wanted to sleep in Sickbay clothes.”

He didn’t, and he appreciated Bones’ thoughtfulness. Leaning against the bathroom wall, he let Bones handle the details of getting him dressed. The pain meds and his fragile hand made the tasks awkward, and he was more than happy to let Bones supply the muscle. The small sounds receded as his eyes closed.

“Don’t fall asleep, kid. I’m not carrying your ass to bed.”

He forced his eyes open as McCoy finished tying the drawstring on his sleep bottoms. McCoy struggled to get him into the shirt. Jim wanted to help but the process required more coordination than he could muster. His body felt as if all his muscles had turned to liquid, and all he could really think about was closing his eyes and going to sleep.

“Goddamn it, Jim, will you help me out here?” Huffing, McCoy forced his limp arms through the sleeves.

Finally, clothes in place, McCoy pulled him away from the wall and hauled him to bed. Jim didn’t even remember his head hitting the pillow.

* * *

Jim bolted upright, every muscle tense and protesting the sudden movement. Pain registered, then receded, like a dark tide going out. He was acutely aware of Bones’ arms around his chest and the rapid hammering of his heart, thudding against the well-muscled arms. His chest hurt. His ears felt plugged, and his head was pounding mercilessly, the headache back with a vengeance.

Bones murmured something he couldn’t understand and the doctor’s warm breath brushed against his neck, sending chills down his back.

“What?” he said breathlessly. The lights were up in the cabin, probably in response to his voice. Had the screams been in his dream or had it been him shouting in his sleep? Everything felt jumbled in his head.

“I said you’re all right.”

Soaked with sweat and shaking, the choking grip of the nightmare began to ease, and he took a shuddering breath. Fuck. It wasn’t his first nightmare. Not by a long shot. And not the first bad dream that Bones had witnessed either. But it was one of the worst he’d experienced in a while because it hadn’t been a dream so much as a memory. And not even his memory, he realized. But that awareness didn’t help. He couldn’t stop shaking, and a heavy sorrow had settled deep within him, causing his eyes to fill. With an effort, he swallowed past the tightness in his throat and put a reassuring hand on Bones arm. “Yeah.”

He meant it to sound reassuring, but his throat was raw, and his voice was barely a whisper. Whatever medication Bones had given him earlier had worn off. He was scared and in pain, and a profound sense of grief threatened to overwhelm him. He didn’t want Bones to let go of him. Not just yet. Not after what he’d just seen and felt in his dream.

But Bones loosened his hold anyway, although he kept an arm wrapped gently across Jim’s chest. It was always this way after a nightmare. It would take him a while to steady his breath and calm his racing heart, and Bones would keep a hand on him until he’d fallen asleep again, clinging to that anchor. He never asked for reassurance. Bones just knew he needed soothing, and provided it.

Jim fell back onto the bed with a grunt, his shaking fingers wrapped around Bones’ arm, trying not to look like the needy kid he was feeling. Neither of them spoke. They never did. They let touch be their voice. Bones lay next to him, rubbing his thumb against Jim’s chest the way Jim had seen him do with patients when they were upset or in pain. Bones was so amazing that way. He always knew the right thing to do when it counted.

“Lights five percent,” Bones said in a sleepy voice.

The lights lowered, leaving just enough of a glow to prevent the room from becoming immersed in total darkness. Jim concentrated on evening out his breathing – long breaths in and out, in a steady, even rhythm – hoping the exercise would stop his trembling. But every time he tried to close his eyes and relax, the Vulcans would start screaming in the quiet of his mind.

Bones moved his hand until his palm was over Jim’s heart and, without opening his eyes, said, “Let it go.”

Sound fucking advice. If he could just figure out how…

He squeezed Bones’ arm in an inarticulate appeal for relief.

“You want somethin’?”

He did. More than anything. But Bones didn’t have a magic hypo to keep the nightmares away. Jim didn’t want to fall asleep in case he fell back into that hellish world again. Not tonight. Not ever. “No. I just need a minute.”

Bones grunted, keeping his hand over Jim’s heart. A hand which might as well be a damn medical tricorder. He wouldn’t be able to fool Bones for long. Feigning sleep was impossible, with his heart pounding like a scared animal.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, bringing up the engineering schematics for the power couplers in his mind, and began to work on the power consumption issue. He focused on formulas and grids, the right sequence and the right amps to keep the ship’s life support and critical functions working.

By the time he’d solved the equation to maximize their remaining power, Bones was asleep. Jim opened his eyes and glanced at the chronometer on the side table.

0318.

He stared at the ceiling and rearranged the duty roster for the next two days. By 0500, he felt safe enough to ease out of bed. He stifled a groan as his stiff muscles protested and changed as quietly as he could into the clean uniform Bones had replicated the night before and left waiting for him. Those small movements were enough to cause his head to start pounding again, the pain so intense it scattered his thoughts and caused his stomach to roil. He pressed a hand to his head, hoping the pressure would ease the pain enough to allow him to re-focus. If it didn’t, it was going to be a long fucking day with a jackhammer inside his skull.

# Second Night

Jim entered McCoy’s quarters shortly after 1900 hours. His head hadn’t stopped throbbing all day and his throat felt as if someone had sandblasted it. Scotty’s homemade hooch had done nothing to alleviate either, despite the man’s claim that a glass of good Scotch was a universal cure-all. For most of the day, he’d been too busy to think of anything but ship’s business. But now…

McCoy came out of the bathroom, startling him, a towel wrapped low around his hips. Bones’ well-muscled stomach made Jim hard just looking at it. He remembered what that body felt like beneath his hands. A warm glow colored his chest, a byproduct of the sonic process. Water was restricted because of the power issues, but Jim would kill for a real shower right now. McCoy raised an inquiring eyebrow as Jim slumped onto the desk chair and tugged at his boots.

“I’m beat,” Jim announced, freeing one boot and letting it drop with a thud to the floor.

“You look it,” McCoy said evenly.

“Spent the day in Engineering helping Scotty reconfigure the power grids.” His other boot dropped, and he rested his elbows on his knees, stretching cautiously to ease his back and neck.

“I heard we were moving the crew off Deck Four.” McCoy dropped the towel and walked to the dresser, grabbing a pair of sleeping bottoms from a drawer.

Jim stared at the long length of McCoy’s body. Bones was so lean and muscular, he was always a little surprised at the powerful form the Starfleet uniforms concealed. His eyes lingered on the well-defined glutes that tightened with McCoy’s every move. Despite his fatigue and headache, he could feel himself growing hard. It had been a few weeks since they’d enjoyed anything together other than sleeping and he was stressed. Sex always settled him down.

“Jim?” McCoy asked, looking at him while he pulled on his sleep pants.

Raising his gaze from McCoy’s ass, Jim met his amused look. “Yeah, we have to start conserving power, so we need to shut some decks down. Crew will have to double up.”

“Like we don’t have enough problems.” McCoy scrutinized Jim closely. “Did you eat today?”

Jim nodded. In truth, it hadn’t been much, only half a sandwich, but it wasn’t nothing.

McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “Uh huh.”

“Bones, I ate.”

McCoy walked to him with an easy gait Jim envied. He knew it was going to be hell when he tried to get out to the chair now that he’d sat down.

“Scotty’s Scotch doesn’t count. Where the hell did he find alcohol? He just arrived on this ship.”

Shit, how did Bones know about that? Scotty had promised to keep the shared drinks a secret. “I told you… I had a sandwich.”

McCoy scowled. “That’s not enough, Jim. Your body is trying to heal and you’re not giving it much to work with.”

“Yeah, well, the replicators aren’t fully functional. Most of the offerings contain something I’m allergic to or there’s a good chance of cross-contamination between the entrees. I didn’t want to risk it.”

McCoy grunted. “I’ll look at your dietary card tomorrow. Maybe we can get creative.” McCoy gently probed Jim’s tender throat. “How’s your throat feel?”

McCoy was in full doctor mode now despite being half naked and smelling like…. Fuck, Bones smelled great – clean and warm and unmistakably male. Jim put his hands on Bones’ waist, pulling him closer and leaning forward to inhale his scent, his nose brushing the flat plane of McCoy’s abdomen and planting an open-mouthed kiss on the warm flesh.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me, kid. You’re barely on your feet.”

Jim tilted his head back to look up at McCoy, giving him a seductive look. “I don’t need to be on my feet to be fucked, Bones.”

The muscles in McCoy’s stomach tightened as did the corners of his mouth. “Jim you’re exhausted. And stressed. When you get stressed you want to fuck or fight.”

“Is that a yes?” His fingers stroked the hard muscles along Bones’ spine.

“Speaking as your physician, that’s a no,” McCoy said, turning away. He walked back to the dresser, quickly donning a t-shirt before turning his attention back to Jim.

“Sex is a great stress-reliever, Bones.” He stood, intending to walk over to McCoy and show him what he was missing, only his stiff muscles didn’t cooperate, and he only made it halfway to his feet before the pain halted him in mid-rise. Stooped over like an old man, he fought to control his breathing as the awkward position ignited a jolting burst of agony inside his head. He held his breath, gritting his teeth against the throbbing onslaught. When he finally managed to straighten, it was only to find McCoy watching him with narrowed eyes.

“I gotta tell you, kid, _that_ is some sexy move.” His tone was dripping with sarcasm. “Nothing says ‘come fuck me’ like a man who can barely stand.”

Ok, so maybe not his best performance. Still… He moved slowly toward McCoy, forcing his shoulders to relax and pasting on a smirk. All of which was wasted when he stumbled over his boots and nearly fell. Christ, how in the hell had his muscles gotten so stiff so quickly? Jim Kirk was a lot of things but clumsy wasn’t one of them. To make matters worse, the adrenaline rush caused by his near fall, had heightened the pounding in his head.

Bones crossed his arms over his chest and watched him closely, his face like stone.

Hoping he was keeping the pain from showing in his eyes, he said, “I know a great way of limbering me up.”

McCoy waited until he was a step away before unfolding his arms. Putting a hand on the back of Jim’s neck, he gently pulled him in for a kiss. It was deep and slow… and it made him forget the throbbing in his head. McCoy tasted like the dark fire of aged bourbon. Just as Jim leaned in for more, McCoy pulled away.

“You need to sleep,” McCoy said quietly, his fingers feathering Jim’s lips.

The quiet authority in his voice told Jim knew that this was all the action he was getting tonight.

* * *

Pain woke him, a laser slicing through his head, leaving agony in its wake. Jim took a few gulping breaths but couldn’t get his chest to stop heaving, his mind reverberating with the images and emotions of a billion dying Vulcans.

A warm hand momentarily palmed his forehead, before steady fingers wiped away the sweat with a corner of the sheet.

“Easy,” Bones said.

Jim felt McCoy’s hand card through his damp hair before settling at the back of his neck.

“It was just a dream, kid. Take a few deep breaths. Slow it down.” Bones’ calming mantra was close, easily penetrating the thick fog of the nightmare that clung to him.

Jim put a shaking hand to his forehead. He could feel the sweat soaking through his clothes and knew he was trembling uncontrollably. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, that was a bad one. Couldn’t wake you.” Bones moved his hand down Jim’s back and rubbed soothingly.

Long minutes ticked by, but finally the shaking stopped and his breath evened out, leaving him exhausted and empty. Suddenly, he was aware of his wet eyes and damp cheeks. Shit. He’d been crying in his sleep. Ashamed, he jerked away from Bones’ hand, avoiding his gaze. He tossed the blankets aside, and got up, staggering to the bathroom. Once he was safely behind the closed door, he leaned his hands against the sink and closed his eyes. Stabbing pain seared his brain, and he bowed his head, surrendering, letting it sweep him, and the horrifying memories, away. He welcomed anything that blocked out the terrified screams of the Vulcans as they were pulled to the deep, relentless agony of their deaths.

His fingers gripped the sink as he forced the memories away, trying to shake off the suffocating grief. Fuck Spock. Why had he shown him that? Sadistic bastard. He didn’t need to feel the death of the Vulcans to understand what had happened to them. He’d been there, on the planet. Felt its death throes.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to erase the memory of Spock’s hands touching the side of his face. Once again, he could feel the first cool, intrusive touch of the Vulcan’s mind.

“Fuck.” He viciously pressed his thumbs into his temples, repudiating the memories. White starbursts exploded behind his closed eyelids from the pressure.

_“Forgive me. Emotional transference can be an unfortunate side effect.”_

Hounded beyond bearing, he opened his eyes and stared at his haggard reflection in the small mirror.

Spock had looked at him, too.

He could remember the look of utter disbelief on Spock’s face when they’d first come face-to-face in the cave. Short minutes later, during the meld, that look of disbelief had been explained when he’d relived the moment in Spock’s memories. He’d felt Spock’s joy at discovering his friend was alive, even as he also saw his own death.

_“I have been and always shall be your friend.”_

Jim shook his head. No. Not _his_ death. That was the other Jim Kirk. The one who’d had the life he’d always yearned for: a father alive, loved and loving. A good man who’d approved of and guided his career in Starfleet. A father proud of his son’s choices, one who had instilled in him the foundations he’d relied upon to become ‘a great man’.

Who was this Jim Kirk by comparison? Nothing more than a genius repeat offender who’d gotten himself suspended from the Academy.

“Jim?” McCoy’s voice, thick with worry, sounded from the other side of the door. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” He looked at his pale face, still slightly bruised. His bruises. His flesh. He was real. The other Kirk was a memory. Two different lives but only one reality. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the room, coming face-to-face with McCoy.

“You’ve been in there for half an hour. You sick?”

Half an hour?

“No. Just a bad headache.” He pushed a hand through his hair and stepped past McCoy.

“Why didn’t you say so. I’ll get you something.”

He moved to the office area as McCoy retrieved a hypo from his medical kit. Sitting in the chair behind the desk, he leaned back and closed his eyes, not opening them even as McCoy pressed the hypo to his neck.

“It’s only been a few hours, Jim. Don’t suppose I can talk you into coming back to bed?” McCoy said.

“I’m good here, Bones.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say, kid.”

# Third Night

It was late by the time Jim called it a night. The corridors were unusually deserted and dimly lit, as much to simulate night as it was to conserve power. The comms had come back online and they’d finally heard from Starfleet. Jim was relieved to learn the _Arlington_ was on her way to assist them, which meant they could transfer the more seriously wounded and non-essential crew. He’d delivered the news to Bones via comm to avoid his sharp eyes, and knew it would keep the doctor busy most of the day.

He wiped at the layer of perspiration dampening his neck, feeling overheated in the stuffy air. They’d had to reduce air circulation to converse more power, since central operations was consuming more than they’d estimated, and while people complained about the thick air, they would damn sure complain more about not having enough oxygen.

Tired and hot, he could feel his uniform clinging to him like a second skin. While his throat was marginally better, a growing ache had settled in the rest of his body, making the simple act of walking exhausting. And, as always, there was the constant throb of a headache that rarely eased. As tired as he was, the thought of going to bed held no appeal. Not with the nightmares that haunted his sleep.

It had been a shitty day all around.

Starfleet hadn’t been happy with his battlefield promotion, the jettison of a very expensive warp core, or the fact that he remained in command despite Spock’s experience and flawless record. It was Spock, standing beside him during the comm session, who had cautioned the Admirals not to question Spock’s decision to relinquish command of the _Enterprise_ to his green, newly appointed First Officer.

_“I was, and continue to be, emotionally compromised, Admirals. The loss of Vulcan continues to be overwhelming for my people.”_

Or to overturn Pike’s command decision.

_“I don’t think this situation is what Captain Pike had in mind,” Admiral Barret growled. “Aside from the fact that Kirk is on academic suspension and shouldn’t be anywhere near a ship, he isn’t experienced enough to command a shuttle, much less a starship.”_

_“I submit to you, Admiral, that he has done so, and quite effectively,” Spock coolly replied._

Which, despite the warm glow Jim had felt when Spock had supported him, only pissed off the Admirals further.

Jim stopped at McCoy’s quarters and entered quietly, assuming McCoy was fast asleep, but the lights were on full and McCoy was wide awake, sitting in a newly commandeered chair next to his desk, holding a PADD.

“Thought you’d be asleep,” he said, as he stepped into the sleeping area.

“I’m sure you did,” McCoy said watching him.

The cabin was hot, as well, and he peeled off his black shirt and wiped his face with it – a poor substitute for a cool shower. He wasn’t comfortable enough to wear the gold command shirt because he wasn’t supposed to be on the damn ship to begin with, but still felt half-dressed in the simple blacks that he wore each day, stowaway that he was.

McCoy stood. “You eat dinner?”

He didn’t look at McCoy as he shook his head. He was too tired for an argument or endure a lecture and so was pleasantly surprised when he heard McCoy order a meal from the Mess without the usual sermon. Still, he inwardly cringed. He wasn’t hungry and the thought of whatever half-assembled concoction the damaged replicators spit out made him queasy. He was limited in his choices on a good day, unless he’d had the chance to install some of his own programming, but with the ship replicators on the fritz, it was downright grim.

Christ, his head hurt.

He pulled on a clean t-shirt and sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots, barely stifling a moan at the pull on his stiff muscles. For a moment, he sat with his eyes closed, head bowed, using the position to stretch the tight muscles along his neck, but that position made his headache flare. Rolling his head on his shoulders, he heard the satisfying crack of cartilage popping. When he opened his eyes, he saw McCoy studying him intensely.

“What?”

“You look flushed,” McCoy said, frowning.

“It’s forty fucking degrees in here.”

“It’s exactly twenty-three degrees Celsius.” He walked up to Jim and put a hand on his forehead. “You’ve got a fever.”

He jerked away from McCoy’s touch. “It’s hot, Bones. We had to cut more power to the environmental systems.”

McCoy exhaled loudly. “Jim, I’m a doctor. I know the difference between a fever and ambient temperature.” He walked to his desk and retrieved a scanner.

“Bones—” Before Jim could protest further, the hum of the machine filled the room.

There was no hiding as McCoy studied the readouts, his frown deepening. After a brief minute, the doctor looked up. “Thirty-eight point three. Congratulations, you’re sick.”

“Am I sup-”

“You’ve in pain. Your blood-pressure is up and, no surprise, your blood sugar is low.” McCoy tossed the scanner onto the side table. “Goddamn, Jim, how many times do I have to tell you to eat? Your body is trying to heal, and it needs adequate nutrition in order to do that.”

“It’s not that bad.” He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.

“Not that bad. You’re barely eaten since coming on board. You’ve had a severe allergic reaction, suffered fractures, lacerations, damn near got choked to death and if you’ve gotten more than five hours of sleep in the past two days, I’ll eat my tricorder. How long do you think you can keep this up?”

He’d learned over the past years not to interrupt Bones’ tirades and never to answer his rhetorical questions. Best to just let the man say his piece. Jim’s silence was always his act of contrition. Sometimes it worked; sometimes not. Today was the latter.

McCoy moved to his medical kit that had somehow magically appeared. Fishing out a hypo and several ampoules, he said, “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to eat what I put in front of you and then you’re going to go to bed. If your fever isn’t better by the morning, you’re going to Sickbay for a full work-up.”

With the flick of his wrist, he delivered the hypo’s load into Jim’s bicep.

“What was that for?”

“A dense solution of electrolytes to keep you from passing out.” He discarded the used ampoule and snapped another in place.

“I’m not going to pass out,” he said indignantly. He was lightheaded, true enough, though he’d be damned if he would confess that to Bones. Doing so would just add fuel to the man’s fire. Before he could defend himself further, another hypo slammed into the sore muscle of his arm. The hot sting of the medication felt like a punishment. “Damn it, Bones.”

“That’s an antipyretic for the fever you think you don’t have.”

“If you’re going to torture me with hypos, then give me one for my fucking headache.”

McCoy held up the hypo again. “Right here.”

This one was pressed to the side of his neck and he tried not to tense as McCoy injected the drug. It was supposed to hurt less, but Bones must have done it wrong, because it stung like a sonofabitch. He gritted his teeth.

McCoy gently rubbed the injection site with his thumb and said softly, “Don’t be such an infant.”

A buzz at the door redirected McCoy’s attention, and Jim sighed in relief as Bones stepped away to answer the door. A young Yeoman from the mess stood outside the hallway, holding a tray. Jim heard McCoy rumble a polite thank you as the tray exchanged hands. The door had barely slid shut before he was setting it down next to Jim on the bed.

“Eat.”

Jim frowned. “What is it?”

“Ham sandwich. It was that or oatmeal.”

Fucking allergies.

He picked up the sandwich and took a bite, feeling his stomach roil in protest. Chewing like a man with his last meal, he tried to take his mind off his rising nausea. “How was Sickbay today?”

“Busy.” McCoy responded absently over his shoulder, while he rifled through the drawers. Tossing a pair of sleeping bottoms on the bed for Jim, he grabbed a second pair for himself. “I’ll be glad when the _Arlington_ is here, and we can transfer the more critical patients. We’re holding things together with chewing gum and baling wire.”

He swallowed the dry mouthful with difficulty, and felt a wave of nausea rise. “Does that mean Pike, too?”

McCoy nodded. “Especially him. I’ve been keeping him in a medically induced coma. That slug did a number on his spine.”

Jim’s headache dulled slightly. Was this all the relief he could expect from the hypo? It was too little for any real sense of ease, and he felt tears prick the backs of his eyes. Maybe the fever was interfering with the pain medication. Should he ask Bones? He just wanted the pain to go away but he was afraid if he asked, Bones would insist on going to Sickbay now. “Is Pike going to be okay?”

McCoy shrugged. “Depends on how he heals and how good the neurosurgeons are at SF General.”

He looked at McCoy with uncertainty. “Will he recover enough to be able to captain the _Enterprise_?”

“I don’t know.” McCoy nodded toward his tray. “Eat.”

Jim swallowed another bite of the sandwich, doubtful that any of it would stay down. He forced himself to eat a little over half of the sandwich before he pushed the tray away.

McCoy exited the bathroom, clad in his sleepwear. Although he’d obviously grabbed a quick shower, he looked as tired as Jim felt. The shadowed hazel eyes looked at the tray of half-eaten food, then focused on him.

Jim repressed the urge to flinch. Bones knew him too well. He saw too much.

McCoy walked over and set the tray aside. “How’s your throat? Are you having trouble swallowing?”

Jim made a noncommittal noise, more concerned with keeping his dinner down than the pain in his throat.

McCoy’s gaze stayed on him for a long moment before the doctor grasped his arm with a firm grip. “When the _Arlington_ rendezvous with us, I’ll make sure they replicate some softer foods for you.”

“I’m fine, Bones,” he said, fatigue clouding his brain, and immediately regretted his words. But Bones didn’t chew him out for being stupid or roll his eyes.

Instead, he said, “You need to sleep.”

It was cumbersome getting out of his clothes. The medication was making him feel floaty and disconnected. He focused on completing the task without falling, dropping the clothing on the floor as he shed his uniform. His head continued to pound, and he shivered as the air brushed against his bare skin. He fumbled for his night clothes, flinching as he felt Bones’ fingers lightly trail down his naked back.

“Wish I could have done more for these bruises,” McCoy said. “A couple of hours under the regenerator would have done them a world of good.”

He stood just long enough to pull his bottoms over his hips, then sat down again on the bed, breathing heavily. Turning his head slightly, he caught a glimpse of the pained expression on McCoy’s face. A nameless sorrow rose in his throat, making it difficult to speak. “They don’t hurt,” he said huskily.

McCoy looked skeptical as he handed him the short-sleeved shirt he was reaching for. “I doubt that, kid. Maybe in contrast to other things, but...”

“Don’t worry about it, Bones. Please.”

Bones grimaced but he nodded unhappily.

He let McCoy usher him to bed, though he had no intention of falling asleep, and clearly Bones had put the brakes on any other activities that would keep his mind off the Vulcans and the rising tsunami of grief that swelled to consume him the moment his mind was quiet and still. Bones lay down next to him, gently placing an arm across his middle, mindful of the soreness of his body.

“Go to sleep, Jim,” McCoy urged quietly.

He closed his eyes obediently but refused to yield to sleep. He knew what waited in the darkness. He could already feel the grief welling upward and he needed to keep it at bay, keep his mind occupied with something else. But lying next to Bones, he felt himself begin to instinctively relax, muscles releasing their tension. Bones’ clean smell and the solid feel of him was like a soothing drug, lulling him deeper into repose. Just as he began to slip into sleep, he would catch himself, force his mind to focus on a schematic, duty schedules, strategies for defense if they were discovered before the _Arlington_ arrived. The fever thrummed in his blood, making him hot and restless. He tried to keep himself still, feigning sleep, but the fever aches and the pain in his head made it impossible.

“Sleep,” McCoy commanded softly, moving his hand to Jim’s chest.

Forcing his body to remain motionless, he focused on his breathing, counting respirations. Beside him, he felt McCoy grow limp as sleep claimed him.

He sighed, half envious, half relieved, but kept his focus on his breathing, knowing that McCoy was a light sleeper and attuned to Jim’s body.

_Just keep counting. One and two. One and two. One a…_

He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but the exhaustion born of the past few days overpowered him and dragged him down, down, down…

* * *

A strangled cry escaped him as his eyes opened. Heart racing, covered in sweat and head pounding mercilessly, he took a few stuttering breaths, trying to shake the remnants of the nightmare that had a chokehold on him. The images that crowded his mind were all too familiar. He couldn’t sort through them, could only feel as an enormous grief filled him, stretching his skin unbearably tight.

Before he was fully awake, and on guard, a soft sob escaped his aching throat. Alarmed, he sat up and slid his legs out of bed, desperate for space, for privacy, a place in which to release his tears without disturbing Bones. The room spun, and he closed his eyes, trying to push down the grief that was swelling inside him, making it difficult to breathe. He gripped the edge of the bed, fighting for control.

As he pushed the grief away, it was replaced with unbridled rage. Not his rage, which was hot and fluid, but a cool, calculating rage that stretched back thousands of years to a time before Kolinahr. Deep-seeded into his DNA, it sang its siren song, demanding his attention, promising retribution, promising satisfaction. Jim’s fingers twisted the sheets. He wanted to scream, to punch, to follow Nero into the blackhole and strangle the life from him, exacting revenge for all of Vulcan and what was lost.

_He stood on the icy surface and watched as Vulcan collapsed into itself, disintegrating into nothingness, taking with it billions of lives and millions of years of evolution. Senseless destruction driven to fruition by the emotions of a madman, emotions he had long since controlled. But now, watching … he wanted to kill._

Releasing the sheets, Jim dug his fingers into his aching head as if he could squeeze out the images and memories crowding it. “Fucking Vulcans.”

The mattress shifted, and he knew that McCoy was awake. Without saying anything, McCoy got off the bed and went to the bathroom, returning a moment later.

“Here,” McCoy said, touching a cold glass to his arm.

He looked up and reluctantly took the water, trying not to spill it as his hand trembled. McCoy pressed a cool hand to his forehead. Though he didn’t want the touch, he didn’t pull away either.

“What’s going on, Jim?”

“Nothing.” He stood on shaky legs and walked to the office area, dropping into the hard chair and downing the glass of water in a few gulps. He hadn’t realized he was that thirsty.

“This is the third night in a row you’ve had this reaction. It’s becoming a pattern, Jim. One I don’t like. So I’d say it isn’t remotely close to ‘nothing’.” McCoy had followed him, stopping at the narrow partition to lean against the frame, watching him. “You’re running on fumes, Jim. You need to sleep, kid, or you’re going to develop sleep psychosis and I’ll have to remove you from command.”

“I slept.”

“An hour and a half. You need more. A lot more.”

Fuck. As if he didn’t know that. He set the empty glass down on the desk and rubbed the stiffness from his neck, hoping it would ease the ache in his head. He didn’t want to look at Bones, who saw too much as it was, so kept his head bowed and eyes averted.

“Why are you cursing the Vulcans?”

Because they fucked up my head, he wanted to say. But he could only imagine how Bones would react to that. What could he tell his friend that would not make him sound mentally compromised?

“Is it Spock?” McCoy ventured.

Jim said nothing.

McCoy sighed. “Jim, listen—”

“It’s not him!” But Jim knew he’d protested too strongly to sell it. He could feel Bones’ unrelenting stare and knew that the man saw everything – the shadows under his eyes, the flush on his cheeks, the unshed tears in his eyes. Trying to lower his voice, he said, “It’s not what you think.”

“It’s understandable,” McCoy said easily. “He almost killed you. Would have, if his father hadn’t stopped him.”

“He wouldn’t have killed me.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Neither man moved. Long minutes of silence unspooled. Finally, McCoy moved. The next sound Jim heard was the whirl of the medical scanner. With a sigh of resignation, he looked up to see McCoy scowling at the readouts.

“Your fever is up.”

He remained silent.

When McCoy looked up from the scanner, his expression held a mix of compassion and frustration. “Talk to me, Jim. Or we’re going to Sickbay.”

As a doctor, McCoy didn’t bluff. Jim had charm and bullshit down to an art, but Bones… Bones didn’t even know how to bullshit, and charm. Well, unless you counted their personal time….

“Okay, it looks like we’re doing this my way,” McCoy said, and made a move toward the comm.

“Don’t,” he pleaded. “You’ll think I’m crazy but I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you all of it.”

Bones drifted back. “I’m listening.”

He took a deep breath. “I met someone on Delta Vega.”

“The engineer. Scott.”

“Yes, but not just him. There was someone else there. A Vulcan.” He ran his tongue over his dry lips and, in halting words, began to explain his strange encounter with the Spock from the other timeline, the unexpected mind meld and the emotions that had subsequently overwhelmed him.

McCoy’s eyebrows rose. “Vulcan emotions?”

“Just emotions,” he said weakly. “Just like us. Only stronger somehow. It’s hard to explain….”

“That’s why the nightmares?”

“No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s all mixed up.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I saw Romulus wiped out by the super nova, Vulcan destroyed…. Sometimes I want to kill Nero and other times…. Fuck.” His fingers dug into his scalp. Recalling the emotions stirred it all to life. “Bones, I can hear them screaming.” He looked up, uncaring that his eyes were wet. “I can hear them screaming as they died. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

McCoy came to him at once, and put a hand on his head. “I’m so sorry, Jim. It sounds like you’re suffering from the effects of a Vulcan mind-meld. At least I know what it is now.”

He dropped his hands. “They’re not even my memories, Bones. Nothing I saw or experienced. But it feels real and it’s all jumbled up in my head, like it was – is me – like it was my home that was destroyed. Like Nero blamed me … not the other and it’s my fault they died.”

McCoy slid his hand from Jim’s head to cup his face. His fingers felt soothing and cool against his hot skin. “We’ll figure this out, Jim.”

“How?”

“There are hundreds of Vulcans on this ship. One of them has to know something about how to treat this.”

“It’s private,” Jim said without thinking, knowing that it wasn’t something they spoke about to outsiders, and especially not to humans.

McCoy scowled. “Let me worry about how to handle that. But if a Vulcan caused this, then the Vulcans can’t hide behind privacy issues. Right now, though, it’s late and you need to get some sleep.”

Jim shook his head.

“Yes, Jim,” McCoy said firmly, grasping Jim’s arm and pulling him to his feet. “I’ll give you something that will put you down deep. No dreams.”

With that promise, Jim reluctantly allowed McCoy to steer him to the bed, but rather than lie down, he sat on the edge of the mattress as McCoy returned to the office. He heard the doctor issuing orders before returning.

“What now?”

“Now you’ll get some sleep.” McCoy gently guided him to lie down on the bed.

“The _Arlington_ will be here tomorrow.” Everything hurt. He didn’t want to sleep, but the pillow felt soft and welcoming, and he was so tired. So very tired…

“You’ll be awake for it.” McCoy promised, pulling the light blanket over him.

The door chime sounded, and McCoy left to answer, returning a short time later with a hypo in his hand.

Jim eyed it suspiciously. “No dreams?”

“No dreams,” McCoy said and pressed the hypo gently to his neck. Laying the hypo aside, he then slipped into bed next to Jim, snugging an arm around him.

Curled on his side in the comfort of Bones’ light embrace, he felt himself begin to relax for the first time in days. “I knew my father in the other timeline, Bones.”

“Yeah.” McCoy’s arm tightened briefly.

Why hadn’t Spock showed him that instead of the destruction of two planets and the loss of billions of lives?

“I wonder what my life would have been like if Nero hadn’t killed him,” Jim asked.

“Does it matter?”

His limbs grew heavy as the medication spread through his blood. Out of an instinctive fear, he found himself fighting against the loss of control.

“It’s okay,” McCoy whispered, his hand pressed to Jim’s chest. “Relax.”

He relaxed, leaning into the warm body wrapped around him, the honey-smooth drawl reassuring. His trust in Bones was bone-deep. Soul-deep. This man had risked everything to stow him away on the ship when even Pike had left him behind.

He covered Bones’ hand with his own, wanting Bones’ hand against his skin while he slept. Bones’ touch was both a comfort and an anchor, the safe haven that never failed to open its doors to him. For once, he had done something right in his life because this southern gentleman with the acerbic tongue and unwavering loyalty had chosen him, a genius repeat offender, an undeserving orphan whose father had died so that he could live.

“I would’ve liked ta known ‘im,” he said, thinking of his father, his tongue heavy, the words slurred.

“I know, Jim.” McCoy turned his hand and captured Jim’s.

The throbbing in Jim’s head, in his heart, eased as he was pulled deeper into the thick darkness of medicated sleep.

For the first time in days, he slept without dreaming.

# Fourth Night

The room was dimly lit, sparsely furnished and hotter than an August day in Iowa. There were only a few VIP quarters on _Enterprise._ Ambassador Sarek had been given one of them, and T’Pel, the healer, the other. All the other Vulcans who had not been transferred to the _Arlington_ , remained housed in crew quarters. The lack of personal belongings only underscored the last minute escape the Vulcans had managed to make from their planet and imparted an air of stark indifference. All of which did nothing to alleviate Jim’s sense of guilt and rising concern.

Jim ran his fingers across his forehead, wiping away the drops of sweat that had accumulated. He still had a fever, which made the hot temperature in the room even harder to endure. Bones had kept his promise and had taken him to Sickbay early this morning, running tests and making him lie down long enough to administer two liters of IV solutions. The tests had all been negative: no infections, no abnormal blood chemistries, no organ abnormalities. Just a fever of unknown origin, or FUO as Bones called it. He shifted uneasily and pulled at his collar, his clothes sticking to him.

“Stop fidgeting,” McCoy said.

He turned his head to look at McCoy, who, despite the oppressive heat of the room, looked annoyingly invigorated, standing relaxed in his Starfleet uniform. “Maybe he’s too busy.”

“She, and no she’s not.”

She? When McCoy had told him a Vulcan healer had agreed to see him, he had assumed it was a male. The idea of a female healer, a female Vulcan, probing around in his thoughts made him even more uneasy. He rubbed the back of his neck. His headache hadn’t let up, despite Bones’ hypos, and the heat wasn’t helping it any, either. “What’s she going to do?”

McCoy looked at him with forced patience. “Jim, I explained all this to you. She agreed to see you and assess the situation.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“Jim, I’m going to be here the whole time. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Bones. Some Vulcan isn’t going to be poking around in _your_ head.”

McCoy looked sympathetic. “Just consider this a consultation. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, except—” He put up a hand to stop Jim who had taken one step toward the door, “—leave.”

The air felt too thin and too hot. He took a deep breath, trying to release some of his pent up tension. The wounded had been transferred to the _Arlington_ , along with some crew, leaving the ship feeling empty and wounded. The conversion with the _Arlington_ captain had been brief and to the point. Captain Reis had made his opinions on the events insultingly clear, including Kirk’s promotion, taking command of the transfer process and all but ignoring Kirk in the process. By the time the _Arlington_ had gotten everyone on board, Kirk was glad to the ship leave. But now…. Now he felt abandoned and alone, despite having his best friend standing next to him.

Restless, he shifted on his feet, fighting the urge to head for the door again, his nerves thrumming from a growing sense of being trapped.

“For Christ’s sake,” McCoy said. “Will you sit down.”

He was about to do just that when the door to the anteroom slid open and a tall, willowy figure emerged. T’Pel was as tall as Jim with salt and pepper hair that had been swept up into a complex swirl that defied gravity. The thin, wrinkled neck looked too frail to hold the head that was held high with dignity. She moved with grace and power as she closed the distance between them, the material of her long gown barely moving.

“Greetings,” she said in a voice that was both thin and commanding. She had a heavy accent, one that said she’d been on Vulcan her entire life and that her tongue was unaccustomed to Federation Standard.

“Ma’am,” McCoy said. “Thank you for seeing us.”

She didn’t acknowledge his thanks but turned her gaze to Jim.

“This is the captain, James Kirk,” McCoy supplied, as if that explained everything.

“I am T’Pel.” She motioned them toward the sitting area, moving silently as she led the way. Jim took a seat on the small sofa, wincing as the movement caused his headache to flare.

“Thee experienced a forced mind-meld,” she said.

Her formal language caught Jim off guard. The only Vulcan he was familiar with was Spock, who had clearly mastered the Federation Standard language. Certainly, when Spock had argued for Jim’s dismissal, he’d had no problems speaking Standard. Neither had Old Spock, although maybe that didn’t count, since he was Spock, too. Sarek, and the other Vulcans they had brought on board, had been mostly silent. Jim had chalked it up to shock—although Sarek had addressed his son publicly when it counted—and a preference to grieve privately. For all their advancements, Vulcans tended to be reclusive, and rarely travelled off planet, leaving an air of mystery surrounding their culture.

Jim swallowed. “Not forced, ma’am. Just not… with my consent.”

“Vulcan laws do not make such a distinction.” She glided into the chair next to Jim, sitting close enough to touch him. “An egregious violation, as the damage can be considerable, especially to a human.”

The way she said human had a sting to it, as if it were distasteful.

McCoy scowled. “Damage?”

“The joining of two minds cannot be undertaken without great care. A melding can leave behind imperceptible alterations of the synapse and neural pathways if not performed correctly. This is most likely the cause of thy distress.”

“It was perceptible,” Jim said softly, rubbing at the back of his neck, trying to ease the ache.

T’Pel said nothing, watching him with an unreadable expression,

“How do I erase them?” Jim asked suddenly.

“Erase?”

“The memories he left behind.” Desperation edged his voice. “How do I erase them?”

“What thee asks is unlawful.”

Jim moistened his dry lips. “Isn’t what happened to me unlawful? Making the memories go away would be righting a wrong.”

T’Pel stared steadily at him, unblinking, her upright figure still and regal. Her eyes were like hard pieces of obsidian. He wondered if the Vulcan healer saw him as anything more than a weak-minded human undone by memories that weren’t his own?

“Thee does not know what thee is asking.”

“I didn’t ask for the mind-meld,” he said sharply. “I didn’t ask to share the pain of a billion dying Vulcans or hear their cries of agony as their bonds broke along with their bodies. I grieve with Thee, T’Pel, for thy loss, we all do, but these aren’t my memories.”

“Jim,” McCoy said gently.

Jim clamped down on his own pain and outrage, and stared at T’Pel. He’d had always been good at reading people, but with T’Pel… She was a stone wall.

“I apologize for Jim’s emotional outburst. He’s not himself. He’s not sleeping, or eating, and the meld left him in a great deal of physical pain. T’Pel,” McCoy entreated, “Humans need at least six hours of sleep a night to stay healthy. Jim has been getting an hour, at most. Now whatever this… other Spock did, it’s making Jim sick. He needs your help. He won’t survive this, long term.”

T’Pel hadn’t taken her attention from Jim, and he squirmed under her scrutiny, despite his best efforts to appear in control. He clenched his fists on his thighs, fighting for calm. “Can you help me?”

“Yes. I must join with thee, but not in the same manner as Spock.” She turned to McCoy. “Thy presence is not required.”

“I’m Jim’s doctor. I’m staying.”

T’Pel looked at Jim as if seeking his permission. Jim nodded. “It’s okay. I’d prefer he stay.”

If T’Pel was displeased with this, she did not show it. “Is thee prepared?” she asked.

Swallowing hard, Jim nodded. His eyes darted to McCoy. He could feel the sweat trickling down his neck as his head pounded. T’Pel rose, all silent grace and eerie calm, gliding to the sofa where he waited with trepidation. McCoy stood to give her room to sit down, and she settled on the cushions next to him, so close Jim could feel her breath. Panic seized him, and his heart began to race.

“Calm thyself,” T’Pel said softly, making no move to touch him. “I am a healer. It will not be as before. There will be no emotional transference from me to thee. My mind will only seek to restore, not impart.”

McCoy nodded encouragingly. “I’ll be right here, Jim.”

He wished McCoy looked more certain. Still, they had only two choices: do nothing, or let T’Pel try to repair the damage done to his mind.

He wet his lips, took a deep, shuddering breath, and nodded. “I’m ready.”

T’Pel’s hand rose to his temple. The first touch of her fingers on his fevered skin caused him to flinch.

“My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts,” she intoned.

The words reverberated solemnly through him, inescapable and compelling. The room went away and darkness took his mind.

* * *

The first thing Jim realized when he opened his eyes was that he was no longer in T’Pel’s cabin.

The second thing was that he had slept… without dreaming.

Curled on his side, with his face pressed against the soft cushion of the pillow, he could see the lights in the cabin had been dimmed. The small room was quiet and he could hear the faint, thrumming hum of the engines beneath him. He let the safe, soothing sound and sensation lull him with its lullaby, reluctant to wake completely.

A soft rustle intruded on the quiet. He blinked and turned his head, his eyes snagging on the figure of Bones standing with his back to him, sipping something from a low tumbler. Jim didn’t want to move, despite the stiffness that had settled in his muscles. Not the deep ache he’d become familiar with, but the tightness from remaining still too long. He tentatively stretched and a soft sound— half relief, half pain— escaped him.

Bones turned.

“Welcome back,” McCoy said, eyeing him critically. “I was getting worried.”

“How’d I get here?” His voice was still rough, though his throat hurt less.

McCoy closed the distance between them, still holding the tumbler. “You walked. Not surprising ya don’t remember. You were pretty out of it. How do ya feel?”

Bones’ southern accent was thick, which told Jim that the doctor had consumed more than one tumbler of bourbon. He eyed the glass in McCoy’s hand. “Thirsty.”

“Don’t even think about it, Jim. Your vitals tanked after T’Pel’s Vulcan voodoo. Your blood pressure’s still too low for my peace of mind. You can have water.” Setting the tumbler down, McCoy pressed a hand to Jim’s forehead. “How are ya feeling?”

He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, reluctant to wake the rest of his body. Bones’ hand on his forehead felt cool and soothing. For the first time in days, he realized his head no longer hurt.

He blinked and looked up at Bones in wonder. All he felt was a profound relief. “I’m good. Nothing hurts.”

“Your fever’s down. Don’t know if she had anything to do with that or not. Damn Vulcan witch-doctor was tight-lipped about the whole thing.”

McCoy’s words washed over him. A strange peacefulness had settled within him, as if he’d been drugged. Maybe that was the reason for the calmness he felt. He couldn’t seem to get too concerned about it, though.

“What happened?” he asked. “What did she do, exactly?”

“Damned if I know,” McCoy said, removing his hand and setting the tumbler aside. “She spent about an hour with you. When she removed her hand, you were zoned out. You couldn’t answer any of my questions. I barely got you back here, and into bed, before you went right to sleep.”

That was alright. Bones had taken care of him, just like he’d promised. He yawned, and felt the need to sleep some more pulling at him.

“How long have I been out?”

“About twenty-six hours.”

Jim’s eyes flew open and he jerked his head off the pillow. “What?” Alarmed, he pushed himself upright. The room spun and his vision blurred.

“Easy!” McCoy said, steadying him with both hands on his shoulders. “Jesus, Jim, I told you your vitals are still low.” He pressed Jim back to the bed. “You need to take it easy for a while.”

His strength drained away, leaving him weak and shaky, and he couldn’t muster up the energy to resist the pressure of McCoy’s hands forcing him back to lie back against the pillows. McCoy pressed his fingers to the side of his neck as he waited for his vision clear. “The ship?”

“Is fine,” McCoy said shortly, removing his fingers and walking around the bed. “We’ll be docking at Earth tomorrow.”

The room stopped spinning and his vision cleared. He rolled his head to watch Bones as he undressed. It was night again and though he’d slept for an entire day, he had to admit he was still tired. _Too bad, you’re the captain._ “I have to get to the bridge.”

Tossing his uniform into the recycler, Bones twisted his torso to glare at Jim. “Like hell. You’re off duty until 0600. Then we’ll see.”

Jim frowned. “I’m not docking _Enterprise_ from Sickbay, Bones.”

McCoy pulled on his sleeping bottoms. “I said we’ll see.”

Jim huffed out a breath and rubbed his eyes. God he was tired. “Who’s in command?”

“Spock. I certified him fit for duty.”

Of course. It was ironic that a Vulcan healer had taken command from Jim while the emotionally compromised Spock had been returned to duty by a human doctor. But then the past few days had been ripe with irony. He hadn’t had time to process it all, because recalling past events had only amplified his headaches when he tried. But now, as he thought about all that had happened, the specifics of what had occurred were like artifacts unearthed from an archeology dig. They had been cleaned, cataloged and stored in his mind, ready for examination but carrying no emotional overtones. Had T’Pel done that?

“Hey, snap out of it,” McCoy commanded, shaking him gently. “I need you awake.”

“I _am_ awake,” he said owlishly.

“You need to eat before you go back to sleep.” McCoy helped him to sit up slowly this time. A tray was set down on the mattress next to him. “Eat.”

With a sigh, Jim picked up the sandwich. Taking a lazy bite, he studied McCoy. “Did you sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“Enough,” McCoy said, and walked into the bathroom.

Which was a lie, of course. The stubborn bastard never slept if he thought there was a chance Jim might need his medical expertise. He’d kept vigil over Jim, and, for once, Jim was grateful, reassured by the knowledge that Bones had been at his side, guarding his sleep after the Vulcan healing.

Jim had just finished his sandwich when McCoy entered the room looking refreshed and carrying a glass of water.

“Here,” McCoy said, pushing the glass of water into his hands.

He drank greedily, draining the glass in great, greedy gulps.

McCoy took the empty glass and tray and set them on the desk, then returned and gently ushered Jim to lie down. “Your color’s better.”

Jim didn’t know about that, but he felt more at peace. More normal. Whatever T’Pel had done had calmed the chaos and eliminated the confusion Spock’s mind-meld had created.

McCoy moved around to the other side of the bed and crawled in behind him. Jim curled on his side, with his back to Bones, caught in the rising tide of fatigue. He remembered the dreams that had plagued him while he slept, and felt a ribbon of anxiety uncoil deep in his gut. Dread sent shivers throughout his body.

“It’s okay, kid,” McCoy said, looping an arm around his middle. “T’Pel seems to have taken care of the problem. You didn’t have any nightmares last night. Slept like the dead.”

Jim cringed at the analogy but let himself relax as Bones pulled him closer. The solid warmth pressed against his back was the best kind of security blanket.

“Lights five percent,” McCoy ordered sleepily.

The cabin darkened. Slowly, the tension eased from his muscles, and he relaxed by slow degrees. His thoughts grew fuzzy. Cradled in warmth and comfort, he slid gently, willingly, into sleep.

And slept without dreaming.

THE END


End file.
